


AS ABOVE, SO BELOW

by bluehair



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Corruption and decay, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Loss, Sentient Nature, Substance Abuse, Transformation, falling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehair/pseuds/bluehair
Relationships: Thranduil & Mirkwood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	AS ABOVE, SO BELOW

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narya_Flame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts).



At first, it’s not that hard.

Really.

Thranduil just feels off, for a few moments of his day.

Like not knowing exactly where he was. Or like really needing to be someplace else.

But then, a king’s life was pretty demanding, so always there was someone else needing something from him, so for some years Thranduil honestly thought that was the issue.

Obviously, he knew about all and any attacks against his people, or else, calling himself their king would have been monstrous.

So he just tried to be better, to do more. It wasn’t easy, but when was something worthy easy?

Right.

But then, there was this strange sensation he felt, during the Tarnin Austa celebration. Right when he was supposed, as the king, to start the songs, praising the light, his throat felt sticky and full with something bitter. Everybody expected him to sing, of course, so he made himself do it, because it was unthinkable to do anything else.

He had wondered what happened, but then, when the feast turned to wine and merrymaking, his throat was well soothed – so he chalked it up on not drinking enough during that night. It happened, really.

Then, he felt the same after all the members of a patrol disappeared. It passed through his mind he should tell a healer, but honestly, would it actually amaze someone that he hated it when his people were lost, that he had a bitter hate for the Enemy?

Of course not.

But after a while the feeling returned more often – and their loses grew, too. 

And it was just not possible to go on like this – even if his councilors wailed that it was against reason, because of all the dangers stalking.

But what use was he, as the king of Eryn Galen, if he couldn’t be safe inside his own forest? What good was he, to his people, if he’d freeze before the battle ended?

It didn’t happen this time, Thranduil thought, thoroughly disgusted by the amount of black orc blood he needed to clean from his swords, from his armor. He had managed to kill a lot, and the patrol with him didn’t have severe wounds, but, just as the last abomination fell under his sword, the feeling of otherness, of disconnect with the place, of displacement, hit him so hard that, at first, he thought they missed one of the enemies, and that he was slain.

No, there was no pain, but his senses were completely dulled, he only heard fragments of speech, couldn’t really move from the spot and didn’t know if it was night or day. 

Yes, he was very lucky this didn’t happen during the fight, because he would have been dead, and the rest of his men with him.

Enough.

So the next morning, the king left their fortress for a while, to reconnect with his forest – because that’s what the king did, when he didn’t trust his judgment anymore. Just like he did at the very beginning, before being crowned, and it’s funny that then, they wanted him to go, and he didn’t want to do it, he thought they needed him more.

Yes, he remembers it so well.

The connection he forged then, with every leaf, every root, every brook and bird. This is what he needs, to be again linked with the purity and honesty of nature, so he can do his best for his people. To feel on his skin the caress of each little wave of river water, just like the moss on the river bank does. To breathe cleanliness, green rays of light tickling his face, just like he did when all he could think of was slaughter, death and impotence.

The trees bolstered him then, helped him bury the dark memories, giving instead the peace of their immutable lives, the long, dreamy winter sleep, the delicious sap blooming of spring, the splendid warm breezes of summer. His nostrils filled with humid, tangy smells, of discarded leaves that fed their makers, their children, all the little lives blooming under the great green canopy. 

That first journey, he thought the visions the sacred drink brought about were difficult to control, that the wealth of living thoughts scrambling for a piece of his consciousness was too much to bear. It was, but it was such a wholesome immensity! Now… now he knows how good it is that the healers didn’t allow him to take some with him, because for sure he’d have gone mad.

In the beautiful glade, which reminded him so much of the first one, cocooning him, then, in sweet green life, feeding him sweet sap, filling his veins with it, the king thrashes and suffocates. Because today, what fills his veins is hemlock. No, worse, much worse.

There’s no need to reconnect, because he never lost the connection, in any case. It became part of his body, that night when the entire forest was him, and he became the forest. No, he ignored it, and yes, it’s monstrous to forsake his subjects – the leaf, the root, the brook and the bird. They knew it, and they tried so hard to appeal to him – but he didn’t see it. He paid more attention to the elves – when the forest was screaming.

Is screaming so loud now, so desperate, and he can’t shut it, he shouldn’t, even. It’s only fair that, starting today, all his food tastes of blood. Or of ashes.

That his limbs feel twisted and flayed. His skin feels like peeled bark, cangrened by the suffocating gnawing of slimy slugs.

That his heart is rotting, because there is more to lose. The oily shadows press and press, every day, trying to get deeper and deeper in, against any natural law. Some trees no longer die like they should, they rot where they stand, but only on the inside, allowing the shadows to dwell in, to grow, to multiply. Helping them against their own kind.

The king returning from this trip is changed, and he knows his subjects wonder. 

It’s the King of Taur-nu-Fuin who returned, somewhat in exchange for the King of Eryn Galen.

But they should be grateful, that he did return. That he is the one who knows the toll the darkness took upon their forest.

A year is not much for an elf. Or a forest.

Just like 7 years is not much for an elf, or a forest, not much at all. Not when life is right, when Anor shines and trees grow and every little critter can thrive. 

But it’s a very long time when you can’t see the light of Anor because of corrupt fumes and when all life is twisted and maimed and rotting.

The elves suffered those 7 years in front of the dark fortress, and paid the blood price for it. 

But the forest suffers so much longer, and it can’t run, it can’t move, because there are no Ents to help it. And the king can’t bring them, and can’t get the Shadow to leave his realm.

So it’s just to share the plight of his subjects, and also, to use what tools he has to bring himself through to tomorrow.

Thranduil always knew what effect sumptuous robes had, what effect priceless jewels had, the dignity and power they were showing, so he did his duty and wore them when it was called for, but now, this new king needs them, every day.

Because only shiny, heavy silk can allay the painful sensation of sticky, itchy tar his skin feels, all the time. Only the cold, perfect star-light gems bring a bit of relief from the burn of the darkened blood, of the noxious fumes encroaching.

Only the sweet, strong and cool Dorwinion allows his throat not to close, allows him not to whimper at every new attack, every time a distorted, dirty hand cuts another limb of a tree, burns it, blackens it.

And then it’s only right when his queen is taken, making his elven soul, once again, a mirror of his forest life. Just like the East Bight was taken from the body of the forest.

Yes, it wasn’t fair to have two different lives, different from one another, for so many years, was it? To enjoy a clean, pristine body, a safe heartbeat, a smile when he was tired. 

He has to take care, to stop touching others, because the tar and fumes inside him can move, slowly but surely, and envelop the other person. Yes, especially his son.

No, the King of Mirkwood needs to be part and parcel of his world, to keep pushing towards the light, even if it twists him and it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

He has to endure.

But alone.


End file.
